


Thullium

by CardboardMoose



Category: Satyricon (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-12
Updated: 2006-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardboardMoose/pseuds/CardboardMoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is late (very late) one morning when Kjetil comes downstairs, bleary-eyed and yawning, and stops dead when he sees the letter on the mat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thullium

It is late (very late) one morning when Kjetil comes downstairs, bleary-eyed and yawning, and stops dead when he sees the letter on the mat. They don’t get much mail, these days; all the fan-mail winds up in a PO box some miles away, and few and far between are those that know their private address. They love their fans, they really do, but a thousand toccatas on the theme of ‘you are amazing, let me worship you’ leaves them half-way between exasperation and gratification.

He stoops, picks it up, turns it over and sees the government stamp, official-looking and ominous. Walking slowly into the little kitchen, he sits down at the table and lays the letter in front of him, the white of the stiff paper seeming pure, unnatural amongst the mottled stains. A long time passes, and he makes no move to open it; just leans on his arms, staring not at the letter but beyond it, into the worrisome realm of possibility.

The door opens, eventually, and there is Sigurd, all wet hair and bare chest and towel round his shoulders. He doesn’t look at Kjetil, but takes the two paces to the fridge and pulls out a beer. There is a fluidity in his movements and Kjetil suddenly realises that his own hands are shaking, almost imperceptibly. He presses his fingertips into the table in a vague effort to stop the movement, with little success.

He doesn’t speak; waits patiently until Sigurd turns round, sees the letter; until his face tightens and he drops heavily into the other chair. They share a look, neither smiling, caught between trepidation and impatience, and suddenly Kjetil is ripping the top off the envelope in an abrupt flurry of movement, long paper strip fluttering to the floor. He pulls out the letter, scanning it quickly, eyes flickering over the densely-packed lines of text.

Everything is wrapped up in near-incomprehensible legalese (Kjetil thinks that perhaps this is pure sadism on the part of the Embassy, for vaguely familiar-sounding phrases to send the recipient flying back and forth between despair and elation), but a few words stand out from the rest: ‘criminal record’, ‘state of heightened caution’, and everything is summed up in those two small words.

_Visa denied._

Kjetil’s nails dig into the flesh of his palm and he sighs deeply, letting the damning paper fall into Sigurd’s waiting hand.

He looks at his companion as Sigurd’s eyes narrow and the paper crackles, protesting against his tightening grip. He reaches out hesitantly, touches one clenched fist, and pretends he doesn’t feel the flinch. He speaks softly, reassuringly, knowing it won’t do any good.

"Hey, don’t...don’t worry. There are other drummers.

"I’ll be fine." _Lie._

"We’ll be fine." _LIE._

Kjetil knows what will happen next. The letter will be thrown down, or viciously ripped in two, and Sigurd will pace and snarl and curse and phone important people, and angry words will fill the air like buzzing hornets.

There will be letters, and emails, and phone calls (the latter at ear-splitting volume and all punctuated with many a profanity). They will fight ( _stupid government_ ) against all ( _stupid bureaucracy_ ) who oppose them ( _stupid terrorism_ ).

It may take a long time, and the phone bill may reach heights as yet unknown to man, but people will give in and _everything will be fine._

Just as it should be.

But Sigurd does none of these things. His eyes fall to the table, fists unclenching slowly (and Kjetil can see the dark crescents on his palms; he glances at his own hands and sees their twins. He has a sudden desire to press their hands together, shield the marks from the chill of his stare, or the other way round. He suppresses it.), shoulders falling in what would be defeat if it were anyone but him. Sigurd’s face betrays nothing, but in it Kjetil reads a thousand signs, flashing, guttering like dying candles; he is no longer sure whether the light at the end of the tunnel is a flamethrower or a torch.

"...Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

And Kjetil has lost.


End file.
